A few weeks ago, close to the mirror, pondering how long I could reasonably go before a haircut I thought “Hey, my highlights aren’t growing out!”
Another look. A closer, held breath examination.

My highlights aren’t highlights – they’re white hairs. A whole forest of them, boldly snuggled in with the aggressively orange/red strands. That’s kinda cool, I mused. I’ve worked HARD for every single one of those suckers.

Going white doesn’t faze me at all. Most women in my maternal line are totally grey by the age of 50 (some as early as 30) – as the only redhead I was curious as to when I might start to change colour as well. I’m kind of chuffed that my body can still surprise me in good ways, though change in hair composition triggers all sorts of thoughts, reflections, self-(hyper)awareness and assumption-changes. Accepting white hair that looks like highlights is easy, but other hair issues? Not so much.

It’s my beard that annoys me the most. Remember Gimli and Eowyn (and Aragorn) in LOTR: The Two Towers talking about dwarf women?

Beards! Solidarity! I am a dwarf-woman! While the dwarfy thought is intriguing (and amusing), I have struggled for years to come to a genial acceptance of the need for my regular waxing appointments. The hair isn’t that much, or that visible (to others), but I know it’s under my chin, along my throat, and it makes me self-conscious in the last few days before my appointment. I know that it’s a side-effect of a condition called PCOS, but it still annoys me. But – happily – my beard doesn’t define me.

The colour of my hair is wrapped up in family secrets, scandals, and far more shades of emotion than available hair dyes. My hair defined me when I was a teen (being a redhead with anger management issues did not make for calm sailing). My sons look for a short redhead if we’re separated in crowds. I’ve found if you’ve had – or can have – a frank conversation with someone about body hair, it’s a definite indicator of a strong relationship. I’d like to think that with age comes not only wrinkles and hair changes but also wisdom, but evidence in my own life argues each way very convincingly.

I did look up the etymology of the word “crone” though, as part of the whole ageing-knowledge-woman dynamic. Depending on where I researched, crone is either a term of abuse coming from multiple language sources meaning carrion, carcass or cantankerous, ugly old woman. Crone can also be an archetypal figure, that of Wise Woman. I found only two synonyms offered – beldame and carline. Beldame (or beldam – NOT to be confused with bedlam) comes from Middle-English/Anglo-French, meaning beautiful (older) lady. Carline comes from Scottish, meaning old woman (no connotations listed). That being said, Merriam-Webster’s “examples of carline in a sentence” reads “<there’s no appeasing the auld carline who lives at the end of the loch>”. Lovely.

Obviously white hair invading today does not mean being a crone tomorrow. But the changing colour has opened my eyes to how comfortable I am with my body, how I appreciate it, how far my physical self has carried my soul, mind, dreams and personality not only through time but through trials and successes as well. Perhaps a little independent foliage isn’t so high a price to pay.

Maybe I am getting a little bit of wisdom after all.

How has your hair defined you? How does the getting of hair (or the change, migration, loss or gain thereof) impact your thoughts and life? Do you worry about looking older?